


Dancing Naked in the Moonlight

by lavellanpls



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Nudity, companion reactions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:29:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavellanpls/pseuds/lavellanpls
Summary: A collection of ficlets based onthis tumblr post.Ever wonder why the Lavellan tarot cards have no clothes on?





	1. Cassandra

Cassandra would admit, she had… _reservations_ about their Herald, at first. She knew very little of the Dalish outside of baseless rumor, and to be fair to all parties involved, _had_ just witnessed the sky tear open. It was possible her treatment of their now-Herald had been unfair, in retrospect. Of course, she no longer held the same reservations now. Lavellan had more than proven her worth. She was a remarkable woman, a brilliant tactician, a capable leader. She was also, often, nude.

Cassandra found this out very quickly.

They were trekking back to camp, still haggard and blood-spattered after a Templar skirmish and treacherous journey through Hafter’s Woods. Cassandra had only just begun to unbuckle her scabbard when she glanced up to find Lavellan was somehow already half undressed.

She knew just enough about the Dalish to be unable to say for certain this was not cultural.

“Fucking _bears._ ” Lilith ripped off a gauntlet with her teeth and flung it to the dirt, still spitting curses under her breath. “Fucking stupid-mouth idiot _bears._ ” Her jacket fluttered to the ground, torn off before she’d even undone the last few latches. “Fucking _bears_ and _wolves_ and…other _assorted idiot wildlife._ ” She barreled her way through camp while furiously unlacing her pants, a trail of cast-off clothing littering the ground behind her. Still grumbling curses, she kicked them off without even slowing her stride. “And if I have to deal with one more _belligerent druffalo_ I swear to-”

“Lavellan?”

She whipped back. “ _What?_ ”

“…um.” Cassandra would admit she was unsure if it was more offensive to stare or to refuse to look. In the end she settled with just sort of gazing off somewhere above her head. “Nothing,” she said. “…as you were.”

She was still awkwardly looking anywhere else when Varric trudged up from behind, bloody and grumbling, took one look at their half-naked Herald, and bluntly asked, “Why are you naked?”

“It’s hot,” Lavellan snapped, “I’m sweating, I’m not wearing fucking leather and chainmail. I suffer _enough_. And I’m not naked.” She ripped off her breast band and flung it to the ground. “ _Now_ I’m naked.”

Mortified, Cassandra could only stare in silence as their Herald stalked off and disappeared into her tent, still tossing out murmured complaints and curses along the way. She looked to Varric, at a loss, but he only shrugged.

“Don’t look at me,” he said. “ _You_ hired her.”


	2. Blackwall

The first time Blackwall met her, he didn’t know who she was. _“Agents of the Inquisition,”_ she’d said. Came looking for him by name, asking questions about the Divine. A Dalish girl, with a band of others. Plucky little thing, all tattooed and armored up. Maybe mercenary. She fought well, and flirted shamelessly, and by the time she’d finished her questions he’d already made up his mind to join.

He made his way to their camp in the early evening by way of her somewhat meandering directions. The campsite itself was easy to find. He noticed the Dalish girl sat off near the edge of camp, having an ugly claw mark on her thigh healed up by a mage. She saw him scanning heads and sprung to her feet, waving.

“Warden Blackwall!” she happily greeted, and marched over to offer a firm, clasping handshake and a crooked slash of a grin. “Good to see you again.”

“Uh.” He wasn’t sure if anyone else thought it was odd she wasn’t wearing pants. “Yes, well. You gave good directions.” Maker help him, his eyeline never wavered. “Trouble with demons?”

She glanced down at her bare thigh, pivoting her hip to get a better view. “Just one demon, and really only its left hand. Other than that, no trouble at all.”

She introduced herself as Lilith, asked him questions about his travels with her hands on her hips and no mind paid at all to the fact she wore only a blood-soaked shirt and a pair of knickers. “See you around,” she promised when he left. Blackwall would admit he rather liked that idea.

He caught the Seeker at the fire’s side while she cleaned demon blood from her sword. “Ah, Seeker Pentaghast,” he greeted. “I was hoping I’d run into you again—I wanted to speak to you about utilizing those Grey Warden treaties.”

“Talk to the Herald,” she brushed off. “She handles such matters.”

“Right, then. Where is she?”

Without a word, she pointed across camp. Blackwall followed the path of her finger, and blinked. “…that’s the Herald?”

“Who did you think she was?”

“I…” He looked back to the Herald of Andraste— _Lilith_ —pantsless in the firelight. “I just, ah…thought she’d be taller.”

Cassandra glanced her direction, but didn’t look at all surprised by the image that met her. “Yes,” she said. “Everyone thinks that.”


	3. Dorian

Dorian didn’t all that much mind, actually.

The day he arrived at Haven Lavellan warmly invited him to come speak with her later. Wanted to discuss their little time-vacation, he supposed. He sought her out in the early evening after settling in, and was directed to her temporary quarters by a helpful Chantry sister. He knocked on her door and was answered with a cheerful shout of, “Come in!”

Lavellan sat dead center atop her bed, papers spread before her, wet hair dripping down her shoulders. Freshly returned from a bath, apparently. She was still wrapped in a towel when she glanced up. “Good timing,” she commented, and waved him nearer. “Finally got my hands on some of Alexius’ research—you’ve got to come see this.”

“I’m sorry, did you want a moment to…dress?”

“What?” She gave a cursory glance down. “Oh. Yeah, I’ll do it in a minute. But come here, look at this.” She pointed to a paragraph of text, alchemical equations circled in ink for emphasis. “You said you helped theorize this magic, right?”

“I did…”

“Good. Walk me through this bit about arcane transference—I have a theory I’m working on.”

“Alright. Let me see, I… Oh.” He motioned to his own chest. “You’re, ah…slipping.”

“Hm? Oh.” She tugged her towel back into place, an effort wasted as soon as she bent back down again. “Thanks.”

“We could discuss this later, you know.”

“Later? Dorian.” She tapped urgently at the circled text. “We’re talking about time magic!” Her grin split from ear to ear. “Fucking _time magic!”_

“Fucking time magic, indeed.”

“It’s a godawful idea, but I have nothing but respect for the fact you just _successfully executed time travel_.”

“Oh, it’s a disastrous idea, absolutely. But thank you. I _am_ rather impressive.”

“We just _transported to_ and _obliviated_ an alternate possible future. We were displaced in time. _Dorian._ ” Her eyes glittered, at once childlike and sinister. “We just spit in the open mouth of space-time.”

“Eloquently put. Ah…slipping, again.”

“It’s fine,” she dismissed, and this time didn’t even bother adjusting her towel. “So about that arcane transference…”

The two were a solid ten minutes into a heated debate on the re-channeling of residual magical energy when a knock sounded on her cracked-open door, followed politely by, “Herald? If I may take a moment of your time…” Cullen was looking down at a paper in his hands when he entered, brow knit in deep thought. He made it two whole steps before he looked up. “Oh! _Maker,_ I’m sorry, I…!” He snapped a hand over his eyes, face already turning red. “I’m so sorry, I heard voices and- I didn’t mean to- I should have-” He shot Dorian a look both stern and horrified. “What are you doing in here?”

“What does it look like?” Lilith answered for him. “Fucking time magic!”

Her towel fell with a triumphant raising of her arms, and Dorian watched their ever-brave Commander turn tail and flee without ever managing to finish a sentence. Lavellan looked to Dorian with a raised eyebrow, baffled. “What’s his problem?”

“No idea,” he said. “Something to do with modesty, I suppose. You Southerners are a mystery to me.”

“Ugh, Chantry boys.” She rolled her eyes. “So where were we?”


	4. Josephine

Josephine hated that shirt.

That scrap of fabric, that _handkerchief,_ that flimsy, tattered…! Just thinking about it gave her a tension headache.

It was a shirt, once. Although meant for someone significantly larger. It appeared to have traveled a great many miles before reaching Skyhold, and somewhere along the way managed to lose its sleeves, all form of a collar, and a few too many inches of fabric off the bottom. It was absurdly thin, left precisely nothing to the imagination, and was by far Lavellan’s favorite piece of casual clothing.

She bent to retrieve a fallen paper during their morning war table meeting, and managed to flash an entire breast through the far-too-loose armhole of her not-quite-a-shirt. Josephine almost wouldn’t have noticed it, had it not been for the suspicious shade of red their Commander’s face turned in the middle of his report on troop numbers.

When pressed by Josephine to seek a more…modest professional wardrobe, Lavellan pouted, “But I’ll get hot.”

“Inquisitor,” she reminded, “this is a mountain fortress.”

“Josephine,” she reminded back, “I’ll get hot.”

“Then you will be hot,” Josephine finalized. “But from here on, you are required to wear a shirt to all Inquisition business. A _whole_ shirt.”

“It’s just the three of you; who am I trying to impress, here?”

“ _A whole shirt_.”

“Fine,” Lilith conceded. “A whole shirt.”

This morning was…well, it was not exactly _better,_ but it was different. It was…something. “Inquisitor,” Josephine patiently beseeched. “Whose is that?”

Lilith busied herself riffling through papers, feigning perfect innocence. “Whose is what?”

“The shirt.”

Lavellan looked down at her shirt—a far too loose, far too large, _far_ too thin men’s undershirt, billowing sleeves pushed up to her elbows, with a collar that hung hazardously off her shoulder. “Oh, this? This is mine.”

“That is a man’s shirt.”

“Yes, but it’s a _whole_ shirt.”

Josephine sighed. Yes. Yes, she supposed it was. She’d finally resigned herself to defeat when Lavellan turned away, and Josephine noticed what it was she’d paired with her definitely-whole-shirt.

Leliana poked her head through the doorway with a humble request for the Inquisitor, but Josephine cut in before she could finish. “ _Where,”_ she demanded, “are your _pants?”_

“These are pants,” Lilith defended. She rotated in place, showing off her definitely- _not_ -pants—scandalously short things that hugged far too tightly around her thighs. “They’re short pants. I’ve been calling them shants.”

“Where are the pants I bought?” she demanded. “Where is the suit we _just_ had tailored for you?”

“Those pants are trash,” she coolly informed. “I’m not wearing them.”

“They are _not_ \- !”

“They look like pajamas.”

“They do look a bit like pajamas,” Cullen agreed.

“ _Cullen!_ ”

“Josephine,” Lilith insisted, “I’m not wearing your trash pants.”

“ _They are not…!_ ”

“ _Inquisitor,_ ” Leliana cut in, firmer now. “I-”

“Those are not pants!” Josephine interrupted. “Those barely even qualify as _undergarments!_ Where is the rest of them?!”

Leliana forcibly cleared her throat. “…this is Marquis DuRellion,” she loudly announced. “You will remember him as the owner of Haven. I believe you have already met?”

The room turned to stare in collective silence at their guest, Marquis DuRellion, waiting patiently at Leliana’s side. His mask did nothing to hide the target of his stare.

Lilith was first to break the silence. “Marquis!” she happily greeted, and politely shook his hand. “Of course. We had an appointment.” She linked her arm in his, turned on her heel, and accompanied him out the door. “Shall we?”

Josephine may have snatched Leliana’s sleeve a tad harder than necessary. “Do not,” she sternly whispered, “let her-”

“Let’s take a walk,” Lilith offered.

Josephine watched them leave, and felt the Maker above applaud her. Truly, this had to be a test of her strength.

“Don’t look so glum, Josie,” Leliana encouraged. “Now you won’t have to speak to him.”

“She isn’t wearing pants,” she retorted. To which Cullen shrugged, and Andraste save her soul, muttered, “Yes she is; they’re called _shants_.”


	5. Solas

Solas was not prepared for this.

He was hardly offended, of course—a body was simply that: a body. He had no moral qualms over its presentation. However, he would admit this was…a surprise, to say the least.

They’d only just set up camp near a small pond overlooking the valley below. Solas was restocking potions when Lavellan approached with a frown. “Hey,” she requested, “will you take a look at this for me?” Without pause or warning she rolled her shirt up to her collar, breasts exposed, and pointed to a red bump directly below her nipple. “I think I got bit by something, and it itches like crazy.”

Solas may have stalled for a moment too long.

“You’re a healer, aren’t you?” she prodded.

“I… Yes. Yes, of course.”

“Good. So what do I do about this?”

Solas brushed it off. He was a healer, he reasoned, and she required medical attention. Simple. He recommended a salve without giving it a second more than a cursory glance, and dwelled no further on it. He was a healer. And the Dalish were…not a _shy_ people, as it were. He’d just been caught off guard.

Simple.

The second time he should have been more prepared for. Alas.

“What the _fuck?_ ” Lavellan sucked in air between her teeth, fingers gently prodding at a vicious slash high up on her thigh. “It clawed me in the _ass!_ ”

Which was…not entirely untrue. A demon had managed to slash her leg during their latest rift-closing excursion, and the wound may have extended a bit higher and farther back than was preferable. While the Herald gingerly eased her pants off, still muttering complaints, Solas politely kept his gaze fixed elsewhere. Or at least attempted to.

“A little help?” she requested. She lowered herself down to sit with her leg propped up, motioning him nearer. “I could use that healing touch right about now.”

Solas obliged, of course. He was a healer. She needed healing. Nothing more. He conducted himself as professionally as possible even while she rotated her hip to allow access to a still-bleeding cut on the sensitive inside of her thigh. She tugged at her undergarments, bunching them up and out of the way, and asked, “Should I just take these off?”

“That is not necessary,” he assured, “I can- ”

“No, it’s fine. Here, give me a second.”

“You _do not_ have to- ”

She’d already shimmied them off.

The next day it was a shallow dagger cut between her shoulder blades. The result of a lyrium smuggler ambush. She’d pulled her shirt over her head before they’d even entered camp. Solas sat her down outside the nearest tent and wordlessly went to work healing the wound, still professional, still painstakingly, clinically detached. At least this time, he reassured, it was on her back.

While Solas had more or less gotten used to Lavellan disrobing at will, Seeker Pentaghast, apparently, had not. She halted in her tracks, eyes widening, and demanded, “Where is your _shirt?_ ”

Lavellan made a show of heaving a loud sigh. “Look, I have been a lot of places, seen a lot of things—but I still will never understand you people and your obsession with _modesty_. How much skin is considered scandalous to you? Are people not supposed to know I have skin? Is it a secret?” She jutted her leg out. “Is my ankle arousing you?”

“You cannot be _naked_ in the middle of _camp_ in _broad daylight_ ; this is the Inquisition, not a…a…bathhouse!”

“Maker save you, we’ve talked too long about my secret-skin—surely your eternal soul is lost forever to the cold abyss of the void.”

“This is _highly_ inappropriate.”

“Iron Bull never wears a shirt, and you never say anything to him!”

“ _Lilith_ ”

“Ugh, fine. I shall _conceal mine offensive tits.”_ She turned back, reached to rummage around in the tent behind her, and pulled on a shirt that wasn’t even hers. “Thine shameful female chest, accursed cleavage—oh, most unholy of unholies, a _nipple!_ ”

“That…” Solas almost didn’t. Almost. “That is mine.”

“What?” She glanced down. “Oh. Did you want it back?”

“I… Well. Eventually, yes.”

“Fine,” she relented. “No one look at my secret-skin!”

While Lavellan stripped—again—Cassandra met Solas’ eyes with an incredulous look as if to say, _“What is the meaning of this?”_

Solas could give only a helpless sort of shrug, and try awkwardly not to stare.


	6. Iron Bull

Okay, okay.

To preface: the Iron Bull had no hang-ups regarding nudity. Excessive or otherwise. For fuck’s sake, he was Qunari—shirts were considered optional at _most_. Honestly, he never did get the South’s big hang up on nipples. (Also: sometimes it was just fuckin’ _hot_ out. Why suffer when you could just, y’know, take off your shirt? Honestly…)

Now, with that said…

Their group was hunting dragonlings off a narrow peninsula on the Storm Coast. Nowhere near as satisfying as taking down the big ones, but a shit ton of fun, still. They’d taken down a solid handful of the snappy little assholes before one of them reared back with a throaty gurgle and spat a sizzling ball of something noxious directly at Lavellan, hitting her dead in the chest. Which wouldn’t have been a big deal, had it not instantly started to dissolve her armor.

Acid. Right. They just _had_ to spit acid.

_Damn,_ he loved dragons.

Apparently Lavellan already had experience with this kind of thing. She stripped her armor with a speed Bull found both impressive and kind of enviable. If he was ranking it, he’d have to say it was the 3rd fastest he’d ever seen a person strip naked. And trust him, that was a _feat_. By the time he brought his maul down on the spit-happy little bastard’s head, Lavellan stood triumphant in her underwear, some thin little bra-type deal, and gave a relieved huff. “ _Dragons,_ ” she marveled. “What will they think of next?”

Bull took in an appreciative eyeful of her tits, nodded once, and said only, “Nice.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You know there’s an ocean, right? Right there? Behind you?”

She turned, face disgusted, and flatly stated, “I’m not touching the ocean.”

Fair enough.

She nudged the smoldering heap of her clothes with her toe, heartbroken. “Man. I really liked that jacket. It was _deepstalker_ —do you know how many of those I’ll need to make another one?” Her frown sunk into a pout. “It was brand new!”

“…right. Yeah. So, uh…did you want a shirt, or…?”

She stared back at him as if he’d just asked the stupidest damn question in the world. “Did _you_ want a shirt?”

…yeah. Fair enough.

“You know, I’m pretty sure scantily-clad-girl-with-a-giant-axe is a reoccurring dream I have.”

“Keep dreaming,” she said, hefting her weapon to her bare shoulder. “And hand me my boots, will you?”

Faraway down the beach, he heard Varric’s voice, an echo of a shout: “We were gone five minutes! How are you already _naked?_ ”


	7. Cole

Cole knew she was coming. He didn’t... _hear_ her, exactly, but he felt her. Like a shift in air pressure when ascending a very tall mountain, a ringing sort of crackle in the ears, a tingling sensation like afternoon sunlight bearing down on bare skin. Lilith Lavellan was bright, and loud, and _searing,_ and Cole always knew when she was near.

He couldn’t see her until she was in the room, though. It didn’t work like that. And tonight she looked…different.

“I think you’re supposed to wear pants,” he said. He wasn’t sure if she forgot or not. Being real was hard; there was a lot to keep track of. He thought perhaps she forgot. “And…I think there’s other things, too.” He couldn’t remember if she was supposed to be wearing shoes. Sometimes it was hard to tell which parts of a person were supposed to come off, and which were permanent. Being real was exhausting. _Changing_ was exhausting. Spirits got to just stay the same. It would be much easier, he thought, if people could, too.

Lavellan looked down at herself, then back up again. “Nah,” she assured. “It’s fine.”

It was late. The rest of the castle had gone to sleep hours ago, but Cole didn’t really need to sleep, and the Inquisitor didn’t really like to. He often saw her sneaking down to the kitchen late at night. She liked to sneak sweets when she thought no one was looking. She’d take them with her to the war room, and eat them while she worked.

Sometimes she forgot pants. Cole thought it would be helpful to remind her.

“Josephine will be very angry,” he patiently reminded, watching as she climbed atop a crate to reach a high shelf. “…I think you’re supposed to have a shirt.”

Lavellan teetered trying to reach a bowl. “I’ve got a robe,” she said. “It’s the same thing.”

“I…don’t think it is.” He definitely remembered hearing Josephine say that. “And I think you’re meant to tie it closed.”

Arms full of stolen food, she simply shrugged, and asked, “Why?”

“I don’t know. People don’t make sense, sometimes.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, kiddo. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She nodded a polite goodbye, and he watched her stroll away, open robe fluttering behind her like a cape. He heard the soft echo of her footsteps across the stone floor, the creaking of opening doors. He heard Dorian, freshly awoken from a nightmare, pause on his way to steal wine from the cellar and heavily sigh.

“ _Fasta vass,_ would you put those away, already?”

Cole frowned.

He _told_ her it wasn’t the same thing.


	8. Sera

Sera didn’t like her.

Lavellan didn’t say anything off, really, not like that—no snotty attitude or windbag speeches, acting all high and mighty. She was nice, she guessed. She asked Sera to teach her how to do a backflip, which was…fun, maybe. Sort of. But she was an elf, and worse than that, an _elfy_ elf—one of the so-much-elfier-than-you types, with the tattoos, running around in the forest chasing halla, or whatever it was Dalish elves did. Sera didn’t actually know a lot of Dalish elves. Or any, maybe. Still. She knew she didn’t like it.

Miss Elfy Weirdy didn’t make it any better when Sera talked about her people and _Herald_ went and asked if she meant elves. Stupid. Lavellan was funny, and sort of pretty in a pointy way, and she bashed up demons and baddies like a proper hero ought to, but she was still… Eugh.

 _“The Herald of Andraste.”_ A big important savior or whatever, with her creepy glow-y hand powers and dumb Dalish-y…Dalishness. She was nice enough, Sera guessed, but it wasn’t like they were friends.

It was mid-day, the sun annoyingly bright and the snow still fuck-off cold. Sera sat beneath a tree on the hill overlooking the training yard, a pile of tiny pebbles dwindling at her side as she chucked them down at sparring soldiers. She was trying to be all sneaky about it—hurling one down at the canvas wall of a tent and then hurriedly ducking out of view while a startled Templar looked around with their face all screwed up. Stupid, maybe, but Haven wasn’t exactly full-up with fun things to do. Desperate times, or whatever. Sera launched another pebble, and this time made a soldier jump when her rock clanged into a sword rack.

“Hit anyone yet?” came an approaching voice.

Sera rolled her eyes. “Not trying to hit anyone, _Herald_ —just trying to, I dunno, scare them or whatever. Just for a laugh.”

“You want to see something really funny?” Lilith asked, ruby grin wide. “Watch.” Standing up on tiptoes to overlook the soldiers below, she rolled her shirt up to her collarbones, tits out, and with a loud, piercing whistle gave a little shimmy.

The Templars all looked up at once. One tripped over his feet and faceplanted into the snow. One dropped his sword onto his own foot, and when he hopped back with a pained yelp knocked into a sword rack and went sprawling. One blurted, _“Andraste’s holy knickers!”_ And one faltered mid-lunge and accidentally stabbed a wooden training sword directly into a very startled Commander’s back.

Sera laughed so hard it hurt her frigging cheeks. She collapsed to the snow, cackling like mad, arms hugging her sides. By the time Cullen spun back and looked up Lilith had hurriedly tugged her shirt back down. She caught his eye and gave an innocent little wave.

Sera still howled.

“Suckers,” Lilith murmured, triumphant. “Gets ‘em every time.”

 


	9. Vivienne

Vivienne had only joined the Inquisition recently, but already knew well the perils of sharing a tent with their Herald. _Everyone_ knew. And in the name of fairness, everyone had to suffer.

Their party was setting up camp in the bleak grey sunset of the Storm Coast, clothing damp and bones weary. A horrid tussle with a pair of bears left their group’s energy sapped. Vivienne—cold and aching and _done with bears_ —wanted only to sleep. And then she heard Cassandra utter the vilest thing she could recall to date: “What do you mean we only have _three tents?_ ”

“Apologies, Lady Seeker,” a nervous scout replied, “but…don’t you always have three?”

“That is when there are _five_ of us,” she argued. “There are _six_ here. Can you not _count?_ ”

“Um.” The scout looked between the battered members of their party—Vivienne, Cassandra, Solas, Dorian, Iron Bull—and back to the Seeker. “…can’t you just sleep two to a tent?”

Exhaustion seemed to take the fire out of Cassandra’s words. She heaved a great sigh, head in her hand, and looked back to Vivienne. “I did it last time,” she stated flatly. “It is someone else’s turn to do it.”

Oh, Maker. No.

The Herald was a decent woman, Vivienne supposed. Or at least had proven herself to not be an idiot, which was enough of an accomplishment to appease Vivienne for the time being. Her motivations were never malicious. But as far as sharing a _sleeping space_ with her…

In the distance, innocently gathering elfroot at the base of the hillside, Lavellan looked up and waved.

Her five companions shared a long, knowing glance, silent and foreboding. “ _I,_ ” Cassandra broke the silence to insist, “did it _last time_.”

“Pass,” Solas quickly followed. He looked expectantly to Vivienne and earned a frosty glare.

“No thank you,” she coldly declined. “Whose turn is it?”

No one spoke. A common reaction to that question. Oddly, Dorian was the first to volunteer willingly. He uncrossed his arms to raise a hand and coolly offer, “I’ll do it.”

Vivienne and Cassandra stared in silence.

“What?” he asked, incredulous. “The woman is a miniature fireplace. It’s bloody cold in the South. Just look at this place!” He gestured disgustedly to the misty coastal view, the dying light of a setting sun turning the endless sea black. “It’s a frozen wasteland.”

“Weird way to describe a beach,” Bull muttered, “but alright.”

“She sleeps _naked,_ ” Cassandra reminded.

“Good for her; I’m cold.”

“She is… _clingy.”_

“Even better. Less work for me, then. She’s, what, three feet tall? It’s like sleeping with a moderate to large cat.”

“ _No,_ ” Cassandra said. “That would be highly inappropriate.”

“…Cassandra, truly, I…” Dorian had to take a moment to grasp for words, too exhausted to pursue this topic with any eloquence. “That could not be further from the truth.”

Iron Bull chimed in to volunteer, albeit for different reasons. Upon hearing Cassandra’s warning, he said only, “Nice.”

She glared. “ _Absolutely_ not.”

Vivienne only sighed into her hands. She glanced around their scattered party, calculating. “Solas,” she decided aloud. “I believe it’s your turn.”

While she was far from necessarily trusting the apostate, he had thus far conducted himself with the utmost propriety. She was certain he, of all of their companions, would give no undue attention to their Herald. Also, he was the only one who didn’t actively volunteer—a good sign, in her opinion.

He responded with a weak look of horror, “I would rather not.”

“Yes,” she said, “I know.”

When Lilith marched happily up to camp with an armful of elfroot, she surveyed the three tents and asked, with entirely too much cheer, “So, where am I sleeping?”

Vivienne and Cassandra claimed one tent (a blessing, as the Seeker was by far the least disruptive companion of the bunch). Dorian and Iron Bull claimed another, with much complaint on Dorian’s part. (“Ugh, but he _snores_.”) And Solas—the poor fool—was stuck with the Herald.

The last Vivienne saw of him he was being dragged by the sleeve toward their tent, Lavellan happily chattering on about plans for hunting dragonlings in the morning. Solas cast one last desperate, pleading glance to Vivienne, who responded with a smile and a wave.

“Goodnight, dear,” she sweetly bid. The powerless fury of Solas’ glare was a memory she would cherish for days.

The poor, poor idiot.

It was hours later when the sound of crackling fire stirred Vivienne from sleep. She stole a bleary glance outside, and noticed Solas sitting alone by the freshly-stoked fire.

…odd.

“What are you doing?” she cautiously asked, emerging from her tent with a curiously arched brow and a robe far too expensive to bring camping.

Solas’ stare didn’t move from the fire. “I could not sleep.”

“And Lilith is…?”

“I do not wish to talk about it.”

Oh, for the love of holy Andraste- “Fine, then. Off with you—as per usual, _I_ will handle it.” She swept back into her tent only to reemerge with a blanket and pillow in hand, her long silky robe wrapped tight. “Go then,” she prodded, and motioned to the tent as if shooing in a dog.

Solas looked between the two tents, then warily back to Vivienne. “You want me to- ?”

“ _Sleep,_ ” she insisted. “If we’re to fight more bears tomorrow—and I am _positive_ we will—then it won’t do to have you sleep deprived. Maker knows you can’t leave _Dorian_ in charge of casting barriers.” She stared down the ominous sealed flap of the Herald’s tent and sighed. “I will take Lavellan.”

The moniker “Madame de Fer” had never been more apt. Vivienne truly was made of iron.

Upon entering the tent she was greeted by the sight of their brave and mighty Herald’s bare backside. It seemed she’d lost all of her clothes again. How shocking. Somehow she’d managed to stretch herself diagonally across both bedrolls, limbs dramatically outstretched, but with some careful maneuvering and frankly _unshakable_ determination, Vivienne managed to roll her up in a blanket like a human crepe and shove her to the other side of the tent. Feeling satisfied, she took to her own bedroll and settled in to sleep.

It lasted an hour.

Apparently Lilith had managed to unfurl herself from her blanket cocoon. Vivienne turned to her other side, and was startled awake by Lavellan’s sleeping face an inch away from hers. Of course she’d thrown off her blanket. Vivienne rolled her back onto her bedroll, and this time stuffed pillows between them as a barrier.

It lasted twenty minutes.

Vivienne awoke at random intervals during the night to find the Herald clinging to her side. Draped over her like a throw blanket. Upside down. Sideways. Tangled up in blankets. Sprawled out _without_ blankets. With her head buried under her pillow. With her head on _Vivienne’s_ pillow. With one leg thrown over the Enchanter’s hip. Curled into a ball. Splayed out. At one point her leg was in the air, and Vivienne hadn’t the faintest idea how that could be comfortable. At another point she looked over at a tangled mass of limbs and pillows and couldn’t for the life of her comprehend what position Lilith had contorted herself into. Was that a leg? How was her head there? How could that _possibly_ not hurt her arm? Vivienne yanked a blanket over herself and grumbled muffled complaints until she fell back asleep.

The last time she awoke it was to a startlingly clear view of the Herald’s…everything. Lavellan had somehow turned upside down again in her sleep, and slept soundly on sprawled spread-eagle on her back across both bedrolls.

In the dark hours of early morning, Solas emerged from his tent to find the Enchanter sitting alone by the freshly-stoked fire.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he smoothly inquired.

Oh, Vivienne wanted to _skin_ him.

Her eyes never left the fire. Silky robe wrapped tight, clothing damp and bones weary, she pursed her lips in a tight, tired frown. “I would prefer not to talk about it.”


	10. Blackwall 02.

They’d only just set up camp.

Blackwall had been sent to gather blood lotus from the muddy shallows of the nearby lake, but Lavellan heard “lake” and set a different goal. He hadn’t even made it to the water’s edge before Lilith raced past, a blur of white hair and blue leather, pants already abandoned about half a yard behind her. She flung her hastily undone jacket to the ground, tore her shirt over her head, and dove into the water without so much as a passing greeting.

Under any other circumstance, with any other person, Blackwall would have offered a hasty muttering of _“apologies, my lady,”_ eyes politely shielded, and swiftly turned away. But this was Lilith. And it was bloody hot out. When she trudged back up to shore, half-naked and dripping, Blackwall looked up only to greet her with a brisk nod. “Inquisitor.”

She nodded back. “Blackwall.”

“How’s the water?”

“Blissful,” she dutifully reported, ringing water out of her hair. “Carry on, soldier.”

He watched her slosh off into the distance, and then farther down, Varric’s voice broke the peace:

“Andraste’s ass, stop getting _naked!_ ”


End file.
